


The Accidental Artist

by anonymousmadame2911



Category: Chris Evans (actor) - Fandom
Genre: Bubble Bath, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fingering, Kissing, Missionary Position, Penetrative Sex, Sex Toys, Smut, Tickling, Vibrator, artist, painter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 22:01:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21143903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousmadame2911/pseuds/anonymousmadame2911
Summary: The reader accidentally becomes an artist and meets Chris at one of her openings.





	The Accidental Artist

“Do you trust me?”

“No.”

A disbelieving smile graced his lips.

“Hell no,” you stated definitively, “I hardly know you.”

You wrapped your right hand firmly around his wrist. It held a fully loaded paint brush. He flicked the brush at your naked torso. 

“Ah! Do you know how difficult it is to remove acrylic paint?!”

He grabbed a raggedly towel and scrubbed the hot pink paint off of your ebony skin. You had no idea how you ended up here. A year ago, you were living on your friend’s sofa. You had just quit a job that barely paid $13 an hour. It was one of those “I’m-just-going-to-keep-it-long-enough-until-I-get-the-next-one” type of jobs. After submitting your resume to 5 employment agencies and going to 3 different job fairs, only to be told “we’ll contact you, but we haven’t got anything right now,” your lease ran out. You packed up and moved back home. You applied for food stamps while applying for jobs. You averaged out at 50 jobs applications between Houston, New York City, DC, Chicago, and Las Vegas. You’d spread your net wide in the hopes that it’d bring something quickly that didn’t involve teaching. Teaching was a dead-end where you couldn’t make money. There were no promotions or raises unless someone died or retired. You’d been told, “It looks like you have a passion for teaching.” How can you say “No” without coming off like a rude bitch? You’d been teaching over-seas for ten years because it afforded you a lifestyle where you had a highly disposable income and you could travel to exotic locations during your vacations. So, you lived it up. You enjoyed your life while teaching in France, Egypt, South Korea and Iraq. 

“I’ll run you a bath,” he murmured against your skin.

“Will you join me? The rub is small, but if you squish up your legs, then we can both fit.”

He kissed your shoulder and nodded. You looked at the painting still sitting on the floor of your studio. You hadn’t planned on bringing anyone home. It was your first opening. You got into painting as a way to make a few quick bucks. You watched these people on YouTube when your anxiety ran high. At first, it was used to calm your nerves. But, it looked easy enough to do. Why not see if you could make a quick buck off of it too? So, you did one canvas and posted it on craigslist. It didn’t sell. Then you did two more. The third painting sold. Then the fourth. It was pick-up only, cash only. The fifth painting brought you into contact with Sunny, Mark Ruffalo’s wife. She loved them.

“You’re not a classically trained artist?”

“If by English major, then yes. I am.”

“But you don’t have an MFA and you didn’t go to art school?”

“Nope.”

“How about this? I’ll buy all three of these. That’s $2000?”

“Cash only.”

“Sure. Why don’t you send me the photos of the next pieces that you work on?”

So you did. She suggested that you create 10 more pieces and that she’d put them up at her gallery. You couldn’t believe it. You were going to hang up your pieces and people were actually going to see them. Not just craigslist weirdos. But, real life, normal people. There would be wine and snacks. Or crudite as Sunny liked to call them. Snacks. Whatever. 

“We’ll have some people who are into art there. I think they’ll be very interested in your pieces.”

“This is very weird. You know I’m not an actual ACTUAL artist. It’s just something to do to pay for my Starbucks or the gas bill.”

“Girl. This could pay for your rent for the year. I’ll check the pricing when you hang them up. I’ll see you at 2?”

You were there at 1:45 pm. You arranged your pieces the best you could. They weren’t landscapes and they didn’t really have a theme, but you wouldn’t tell Sunny that. You called your exhibit “The Outer Realm.” Just bizarre and esoteric enough to fool the audience, you hoped. You left at 5 pm to get ready. You threw on some jeans and a hot pink top. You were ready to kill it.   
Sunny, in her sweet and effervescent way, took you from group to group introducing you to people. 

“This is Robert, but he liked to be called Bob, by his friends.”

“I love this piece over here. The red and gold one. What’s it called?”

“Magma. It’s--”

The irony of Robert Downey Jr. expressing interest in your red-and-gold piece and red and gold being the Ironman colors did not escape you. You were about to say just as much, when you were interrupted by him shouting at another friend.

“You made it! We thought you’d be in Boston tonight seeing the family?”

Robert hugged and kissed a tall, muscular white guy wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. 

“This is the artist of these magnificent pieces. You know what honey, I’m going to take ‘Magma.’ It’s just gorgeous. My assistant will send a check to the gallery, Sunny.”

“Oh wow. Thanks. Um. Ok.”

You were stunned. RDJ just dropped $5000 on one piece. 

“Hi. Chris. Nice to meet you.”

Sunny nudged you.

“Oh…oh! Hi. Yes. Nice to meet you.”

One piece had just taken care of rent for a few months. You felt like you didn’t belong here. You weren’t a classically trained artist. You barely got a B in your intro to drawing class. You couldn’t draw because you couldn’t get the proportions correct! You went to the back alley to get some air, where you found Chris sneaking a cigarette. 

“Sorry. Didn’t realize you were out here.”

He snuffed out his cigarette like a guilty child.

“Just needed a few minutes to myself.”

“Yeah. Me too. This is all so overwhelming.”

“Embrace it. Your art is great.”

“It’s not. It’s really not.”

He gave you a blinding smile. 

“Sure it is. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

“But I don’t belong here.”

You told him the story of how you met Sunny and how you ended up in the gallery. He responded to your story with a deep resounding laugh.

“So, the moral of the story is don’t meet people through craigslist? Are you sure about that?”  
“Oh, absolutely. I 100% do not belong here. Come on, we should get back in there. I need to sell some more pieces or something. Honestly, I have no clue what I’m doing.”

He laughed again.

“Fake it until you make it,” he whispered conspiratorially.

You were swallowed up into the crowd where Sunny quickly dragged you from piece to piece showing you which ones had been sold and which ones hadn’t. The crowd slowly thinned out as the hour ticked on. By the end of the night, it left just you, Mark, Sunny, Chris, RDJ, and Susan sitting in a group talking. 

“It’s quitting time, so I think I’m gonna head home,” you said. 

You didn’t want to overstay your welcome with a crowd like this.

“I’ve got a car. I can give you a ride if you need one?” 

“Thanks, but no thanks, Chris. I’m fine to take the subway.”

“Well, where do you live? If it’s on the way, then why not?”

“I live in Harlem.”

“That’s perfect. Mackie’s letting me crash at his place there while he’s staying at his place in Brooklyn.”

Chris had already pulled on his jacket. You were stunned for the umpteenth time that night. You were out of your depth. He gently grabbed your wrist and pulled you out of the gallery. He unlocked the car doors and you jumped to grab the door before he could. 

“I don’t bite,” he murmured as you plopped in your seat.

He firmly closed the door behind you with your enlarged eyes focused forwards. 

“Just take Broadway all the way until you hit Harlem.”

“Got it.”

He reached over and squeezed your hand before putting both hands back on the wheel. What was going on?! Clearly he wasn’t into you. Impossible. In-con-ceivable!   
He pulled the sleek, black car into traffic and before you knew it, he was parking in front of your building.

“Let me walk you up. It’s not safe here.”

Oh no. Girl! You in danger!

“I can make it up just fine. I’m pretty aware of my surroundings.”

“I would feel terrible if something happened to you under my watch.”

What?! You’d met him 5 minutes ago and now he acted like he was tied to you. You’d let him walk you to your door and then you’d say ‘goodnight.’ An easily accomplished goal. Except not. He’d kissed you at your doorway. A deep, passionate kiss that made you forget your name. You dropped your bag on the ground. You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him into another kiss, completely forgetting that you were supposed to send him on his way. You pushed him back a step to pick up your bag and fish out the keys. 

“You can’t do that. I—uh—can’t find—mmm—keep going—my keys.”

He nibbled and sucked at your neck. You had no defenses against this man. You were easy prey. He could hit it and quit it in the hallway if he wanted. You pushed him away when you realized your little problem.

“Oh shit! I forgot! I have a giant canvas on the floor. My apartment is in disarray. I—I—”

He pulled you into another soul-destroying kiss. By now, you were certain you were a brainwashed zombie for him.

“Mmmm. Yes, you’re right. It doesn’t matter.”

He smirked at you and nibbled on your earlobe.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know. You’re still right. Mind the mess.”

You stumbled through the door with Chris’s torso pressed up behind you. You dropped your keys and bag on the kitchen counter. He grabbed you out of the kitchen and pulled you into another kiss. You flipped on the light illuminating the living room/bedroom/artist studio. 

“Tip toe around the edge of the canvas. You should be fine.”

“Are you gonna show me how to paint?”

“Ha! No. I don’t know how to paint myself! Maybe some body paint.”  
“Like this?”

He grabbed a cup with electric blue paint and a paintbrush still in it. 

“Wait. I can’t paint with your shirt on! The paint will destroy it. You gotta take off the shirt.”

“Pants too? How about tank top and underwear?”

Oh fuck. He really was taking off all of his clothes. 

“Your turn.”

“No. I didn’t say we were taking turns,” you muttered sarcastically.

“Your. Turn,” he repeated firmly.

You sighed and pulled off your tank top and jeans. This left you in a mismatched bra and thong. At least the thong was black. You could pretend it was fancy. But the bra. Hell no. The bra was about 10 years old and the hot pink color had faded. He gestured to himself, standing naked by your bed with no clothes on and a major boner. 

“What? Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?!”

“I’m naked. So, you need to get naked. I wanna learn how to body paint.”

“You’re full of shit. I’m sure one of those fancy celebrity girlfriends of yours had shown you how to body paint.”

“We’re not talkin’ about them right now. We’re talkin’ about you. And me. Now, show me how to body paint.”

“I can’t! This is all the entirely wrong paint. I need latex paint. We gotta go to a sex shop. This paint will never come out!”

He loomed over you and pulled the paintbrush out of the paint full of blue paint. 

“Do you trust me?”

“No. Hell no,” you crossed your arms. “I hardly know you.”

He flicked the paint at you. Tiny bits of blue splattered across your rib cage. He grabbed up an old towel that had been demoted from dog towel to painting towel. He scrubbed the paint easily from your torso and promised to run you a bath. OK. But how two people were supposed to fit in a bathtub that fit half a person was beyond you.

“It’s ready. Come on.”

The bubbles piled high around him. You wiggled out of your thong and bra and tossed them in your closet with the rest of your dirty clothes. You sank into the steaming hot water with his chest pressed to your back. 

“This is nice,” he muttered into your shoulder.

“Mmmhmmm, especially with your fingers where they are. Your hands wander pretty easily.”

“Sorry. Got no control over them.”

“I didn’t say you needed to move them.”

“Oh? Sounded like you were complaining.”

“Nothing of the sort. Get back to work.”

You playfully slapped his bicep. His fingers worked their way between your puffy folds. You were gratefully that you’d had the foresight to get a Brazilian wax at the beginning of the week. He caressed the inside of your thigh while the other hand worked your clit. 

“You need a removable shower head,” he noticed.

“Ha! Who—oo—is going to pa—aay for it?”

Your sarcasm broke with each stroke of his finger tips against your bundle of nerves. 

“I have a vibrator in my night stand.”

“Good enough.”

You began to stand and he grabbed you back down into the water. His fingers worked faster and faster against your clit. Your breasts putting on the show that he wanted to see. Your breath moved in sync with his fingers. The coil in your lower belly snapped. You slumped against him. The feelings of contentment and calm eased through you. You were oblivious to the world. He patted your arms. 

“Let’s go.”

“Go?! No.”

“To your bed.”  
“Oh. Right.”

You leaned forward and he stood up. The bubbles wiggled their way down his well-defined muscles from his shoulders down to his calf muscles. Yup. You were in danger, girl. He stepped gingerly onto your bathmat ($14 from Marshall’s!) and reached out a hand to help you up. You accepted it and stood. He watched your skin gleam in the bathroom lights.

“Not the best lighting in here,” you murmured.

“We don’t need lights for what we’re gonna do.”

That damn smirk made another appearance. He stepped around the canvas and you cozied up in your bed. He dug around in your night stand drawer (there was only one!) and easily found your purple vibrator. He crawled on the mattress and moved your ankles to either side of his torso. You flipped off the bedside light leaving you in the light coming in from the street. He caressed up your thighs to your hot folds. He twisted your vibrator on to the lowest setting and gently spread your lips. He stopped. 

“What?!”

“One second. I wanna watch.”

He handed you the vibrator and turned on the bedside lamp. He settled back between your legs. You were astounded, and not for the first time that night. You placed your hand between your legs and separated your lips. His hot breath cascaded down your pussy. Fuck he was close to it. You twisted it up to a medium setting and pressed it between your folds. The tip teased your clit. Your hips tilted down for the right friction. You glanced down to see him watching in rapt attention. Holy shit. You were putting on a show for Captain America. You would give him a show if he wanted one. Your left hand came up to squeeze and massage your breast. Your fingers lightly pinched your hard nipples. You rocked your hips into your vibrator without taking yourself to the finale. You reveled in the friction and tension rippling through your body. You felt the coil twist and turn slowly in your lower belly. 

“Baby, I haven’t got all night.”

He pushed your hand off of the vibrator. He twisted it up to its highest setting and pressed it flush to your clit. Within seconds, your coil snapped. For the second time that night, feelings of calm, relaxation and goodness rippled through you. You were oblivious to what Chris was doing. You felt the mattress shift, but didn’t pay any mind to him. The facial hair from his beard tickled your hip.

“What?”

“You’re itchy. When are you gonna shave? I hate beards.”  
“What?!” he gasped. “You hate beards.”

He emphasized each word by scraped his chin along your stomach, making you squeal and scratch. He nuzzled his mouth into your neck, making you squirm and scratch.

“Let me help you with that itch,” he said with a devious look in his blue eyes.

“Wa-ho! No! I know all about you and your helping.”

You used air quotes on helping, causing him to cock his eyebrow. 

“Yes. I’m gonna help you scratch that itch.”

His knee nudged between your legs. He dipped his hips until the angry red tip nudged at your entrance. You giggled and tilted your head to look at him. Sighing, you reached down and set the head of his dick at the edge of your entrance. 

“YOU look like you need he—oh!”

He thrust into you deeply. You reached between your two sweat-slicked torsos to adjust yourself against. You reached around and grabbed his firm, round ass. You rocked up into his thrusts. His chest and face were pink with effort and his hot breath cascaded down your neck and chest. You arched into him looking for more skin-on-skin contact. He gripped his hands in fists braced on either side of your head. He was close. You were close. Fuck. He wasn’t wearing a condom. But he felt all too good inside of you and on top you. 

“Chris. Wai—wait, don’t come—don’t come—in me.”

His pace picked up speed and he wrapped his arms tightly around you. You rocked your hips faster underneath him. His “fucks” came out of his mouth in time with your hips. He reached between your folds and teased your clit. You were thrust into another orgasm for the third time that night. You lie in bliss and oblivious to your surroundings while Chris took himself in hand and exploded on your stomach, jolting you back to reality. 

“Oh fuck—oh fuck,” he hiccuped, “that wa—was ama-zing.”

He slumped next to you on his back, as he twitched in the aftermath. After a few minutes, he reached down to grab the raggedy old towel to wipe off the cum on your stomach. You touched the blue streak going across your stomach.

“5 towels lying around and a roll of paper towels and you couldn’t get a different towel?” 

He shrugged embarrassed. You got up and tiptoed over to the bathroom to pee. You wiped off the blue paint with toilet paper. You grabbed a glass of water from the sink and shared it with him. He got up and went to the bathroom while you lazed in bed. You had drifted off when you felt him crawl back into bed. 

“Can’t wait to do this again.”

“No. We not doin’ this again,” you slurred in your exhausted state. 

“Sure we are. First thing in the morning.”

Girl, you in danger.


End file.
